After Serenity
by Lothithil
Summary: In the episode 'Serenity', MacGyver fell asleep and had a dream that his life was an old Western movie. This picks up after that story--still inside the dream-- to explore the untapped possibilities. For fun. On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1 The Streets of Serenity

**Part 1, ****The Streets of Serenity **

The last time I felt like this was the time that I'd been kicked in the lung by an ornery old, swayback army horse that I'd been trying to shoe. The last thing I remember was Murdoc's triumphant leer, a flash of light, and a loud _**bang!**_ One moment I was standing on the veranda above the Wainwright Hotel... and the next I was lying flat on my back with my left leg was twisted under me. I found myself thinking about that old horse, and wondering idly if I'd managed to get the shoe on first.

It felt as though my air had frozen, which was strange, because everything was on fire. Things must have melted a bit because I finally managed to cough. As I drew a ragged breath in, I could hear people shouting, right in my ears it seemed. Someone raised my shoulders. That made breathing a bit easier. I drew in another breath and opened my eyes.

Miss Penny was kneeling beside me; she had my head pillowed on her lap. She was crying and laughing at the same time. I wanted to ask her how she managed to get down from the balcony so fast, but I couldn't seem to form any words yet. Breathing was so much work and I was tired… so tired. I wanted to let my eyes close and just sleep right here in the street. I could feel the faint kiss of snowflakes on my face.

A gloved hand grabbed mine and I turned to see Thornton , kneeling in the snow beside me, concern and relief warring on his weathered face. He squeezed my hand hard, and somehow the feeling crept past the furnace in my chest.

"Ow." I said. The word never made it into the air.

"Where'd he get you?" Dalton asked anxiously. I saw him then, down somewhere near my right foot. My left foot was not there, I noticed with a sense of detachment. What had Murdoc done with my left foot?

I glanced down at myself. My left leg was still there--with the foot attached, but bent up at an uncomfortable-looking angle. That was when I noticing the hole in my tunic, just over my heart; a tendril of smoke rose from the powder-burned hole. I couldn't see any blood... there should be blood, shouldn't there?

With hobbled fingers I probed the damage. Nope, no blood. Clumsily, I extracted the little knife-- a gift from the kind old Swede who'd helped me find Serenity-- then I lay back blinking dumbly at the bullet-shaped divot that marred the hand-worn handle, just beyond the small carved cross.

It had deflected Murdoc's bullet and saved my life.

Down the street I heard a stallion scream in protest as the villain brutally reined him in; hooves skidded in the icy dirt, throwing up plumes of dust. The black beast reared, but was unable to shake the black clad killer; the horse snorted and raced down the road out of town.

I can't say I wasn't glad to see the back of him—but I had a feeling, as my eyes weighed down again and I sank into warm darkness, that this wouldn't be the last I'd seen of Murdoc.

It was, however, the last thing I saw for a long while.


	2. Chapter 2 Ranch, Sweet Ranch

**Part 2,** **Ranch, Sweet Ranch**

So… I didn't get shot through the heart by a ruthless mercenary gunslinger… but I **did** break my leg when I fell. Doc Perkins was out of town on a house call, so I was left to the mercy of ol' Barry Donner. He was used to doctoring animals, but he set my leg just fine and fixed a splint so good that I could just about walk on it. I thanked him and offered him a coin, but he just sent me off with a wave, telling me he didn't take money from heroes or idiots. I wish I could tell which one he thought I was.

Pete Thornton wanted me to come lay up at his ranch, but I refused. I did need his and Dalton's help to get back to my own place, but once I was home I shooed them away.

What I needed was some peace and some quiet.

What I _got_ was Lee Sing.

Lee Sing was fit to be tied with relief to have me back in a not-dead, un-bullet-ridden state... though he was _**less**_ than pleased to learn that Murdoc had not been arrested for Billy's murder. I assured him that he could not escape justice for ever. I wondered afterward what I thought that I was going to do about it.

I know what some men would do; ride out on his trail for as long as it took, find him, and shoot him dead. Justice of the West. But I'd had a bellyfull of guns and fighting during the War... I'd come here to Serenity to put that all behind me. I didn't want any duty other than to work my land and keep myself.

But Billy hadn't asked to be shot dead in cold blood... and he never would have been if he hadn't been with me, keeping my land and being my friend. So I wasn't just _feeling_ obligated to so something... I **was** obligated.

Thornton owned some of that obligation, too, and I knew he felt it. Before he had left Big Springs Ranch, he'd paused again beside the snow-dusted square of broken earth where a crude wooden cross jutted up into the air. He didn't say anything; he'd just taken off his hat despite the cold wind, and hung his head for a long moment. Later, while I was doing my thinking, I wondered what he felt—exactly—and what we might do together to right this wrong.

There wasn't anything **I** could do right away, however, 'cause once I reached the house Lee Sing stormed out; a short, stout tsunami of a man in an apron and long, black topknot. He wedged himself under one of my arms and helped me inside, chattering faster than a hummingbird could fly—in Cantonese, as if I could understand a single word of it. I gathered after a while that he was demanding that I let him be my feet until I was up on mine again.

Then he brought me a cup of tea that I hadn't asked for. I took a sip and noticed right off that it tasted funny, but after a while the ache in my leg and chest seemed to ease, and the more I drank, the more soft that ricket-cot I'd been using as a bed became, until it was more comfortable that I'd ever imagined it could be.

As I let my eyes closed, I realized the clever Canton had slipped something into my drink. I decided to yell at him about it... later.


	3. Chapter 3 Winter Harvest

**Part 3, ****Winter Harvest**

My leg healed quickly, but then I always have healed quicker than most folks. Only a couple of weeks later I was getting around the ranch fine with just a bit of a limp. Lee Sing would keep an eye on me, I know, but since I usually know my limits, he didn't have to fuss much.

I really should have given myself another week or two, but things were getting sparse around the cabin, and as much as I enjoyed Lee Sing's cooking-- there are only so many ways to cook rice before it gets _really_ old. He had a fair store of canned goods holed up, vegetables and fruit, grain and flour, but he made it clear that soon he'd need to cull one of the herd to put meat on the table.

So I strapped my leg up good and tight, put on a few extra layers of clothes, and cleaned the shotgun.

As I handled the worn wood and blue metal, I didn't forget that it was the same weapon that Billy had used to put 'the Fear of the Lord' into Thornton's rowdy cowboys… or that it had been what had cost him his life; he'd been armed with it when Murdoc had come calling.

I couldn't help thinking… if he'd been unarmed he might have been spared, like Lee Sing. But then again, maybe not. From what little I'd seen of Murdoc, I knew he was ruthless and cruel. It may be that the only reason he left the Chinaman alive was because he had needed someone to pass on the message.

Though I wasn't happy to be handling a gun--this gun in particular--still, it was **a tool**, and I needed it for its intended use: to bring down big game. I could have asked Lee Sing to select some livestock for slaughter, but I didn't want to sacrifice any of the cattle when there was an alternative. There was a goodly number of deer and elk on the grounds, and with the bulk of winter still ahead, it made sense to thin their numbers for sustenance first.

I saddled my horse but I didn't ride out. The snow was deep in places and I didn't want to risk another broken leg—mine or the horse's. I led him, and we traced the game trails marked clearly in the snow. There were many prints to follow.

I saw a fair amount of my land that day, and my heart deepened with an indescribable joy. Legally, this was **my** land, until I died or sold it. But down inside my soul, I knew that it was I who belonged _to the land_. I was temporary—the land had been here long before I was born and it would be long after I was dust; unchanged and enduring.

I'll tell anyone who's interested that I don't like guns… that I'm done with guns. But that don't mean that I can't use 'em. I came home with meat that night.

We keep the land… and the land keeps us.


	4. Chapter 4 Rio Loco

**Part 4, ****Rio Loco**

Months had passed since Murdoc's ambush, and though I was fully recovered from my fall I still sometimes woke up in a sweat. My dreams were plagued with sensations of falling, and sometimes when I climbed up a ladder to nail down a shingle or cut back a limb, a wave of dizziness would take me, and I'd have to pause for a few seconds to get my breath back.

Luckily, I had some help around the ranch. I missed Billy Colten, but Lee Sing stayed with me. Between the two of us, we managed to keep the ranch in one piece through the first big thaw.

About the time that Spring rolled through Serenity Valley, a wagon rolled up the road to the house. Lee Sing introduced me to his family; his aunt Ling and her three children, Jei, Huna, and Bai. Lee Sing explained that they were searching for a new situation, since Ling's husband had died working on the railroad.

I invited them to stay for as long as they wished, and soon discovered that I had unknowingly enlisted two of the best horse wranglers China had ever exported; Jei, a youngster on the verge of manhood, and to my surprise, his mother Ling.

When I purchase of the ranch and the land it sat on, I also acquired a number of animals. The horses roaming the acres were pretty much as wild as the mustangs, but most were bred for riding. Jei and Ling helped me round them up. Now, I'd learned about horses from my daddy's knee, but Ling and Jei—they both seemed to just be able to know what a horse was thinking, and Ling had a talent for nursing and foaling.

Huna and Bai were more able riding herd on the cattle I'd inherited, as well as mending fences, gathering feed, and clearing brush. We had to rely on my meager skills for fixing up the barn and habitats, but as I'd practiced a bit of carpentry before the war, such tasks were accomplished quickly and satisfactorily, especially with the willing hands of the Lee family.

We all worked hard the day long, and Lee Sing cooked for us and kept the house. With a few pieces of second-hand lumber and some sweat, we managed to convert an old smokehouse into a bunkhouse. I spent one of my remaining gold coins to purchase glass windows for the main house and the bunkhouse, so that the next winter would be more comfortable for us all.

On a ranch, there is never a lack of work to be done. The very day after we finished the bunkhouse, the corral where we'd been working the horses finally fell down. It had been built from wood that looked like drift and saplings, and I had been thinking that I ought to replace it with sturdier, more durable timbers when I had the time, but nature and a strong spring storm moved the task up to the top of the list.

I arranged with Bear the blacksmith to borrow one of his wagons to haul the lumber, as I'd have to travel all the way to Dry Gulch for supplies. There was no lumber mill closer to Serenity. Huna and Bai went with me, along with such supplies and things that Lee Sing believed we'd need for a two day trip.

Now, I'd been learning a lot from my ranch-hands, in the language and customs of the Chinese. Ling had seen to it that her children could speak very passable English, though when they were alone they usually conversed in their native dialect. I was picking up a smattering of Chinese myself, just by listening. As we drove over the rough roads between Serenity and Gulch, I practiced my new language skills… much to the amusement of Huna and Bai.

"Go ahead and laugh," I said to them as the guffawed loudly after I mangled yet another phrase in Cantonese, "It's not so easy for a country boy like me to wrap my tongue around such strange sounds!"

"MacGyver, you speak very well, for one who is just beginning," Huna said, still snickering, "but when you go wrong, you go very, very wrong!" Bai snorted and slapped his knee in agreement.

"So what _**did**_ I say?" I demanded, joining their laughter. "I was trying to say, 'Hullo, I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"You really say, 'Hullo, please make my fence'."

I shook my head as they began to laugh again, then I sighed. "I guess I'm too old a' dog to learn a new trick."

"Mai-mae Genn, our mother's mother, she say 'Old dogs learn no tricks, but teach young dog lesson every time!' "

"Good point!" I allowed. I shook the reins slightly; the draft horse was wandering toward the spring grass growing on the lea of the ditch we were following. "Git up, there. We'll stop for fodder at the sandbar, old thing!"

We camped on the wide sandbar that banked the creek that lay roughly half-way between Dry Gulch and Serenity. We were up early the next day, across the water and on our way, before the sun had fully risen above the lanky mountains. We rolled into Dry Gulch just before noon.

With Huna and Bai's help the wagon was loaded and secured in trick time. The miller was fair with the price, especially after I rigged a make-shift gear to help him keep his waterwheel turning until he could get a proper replacement made. He knocked a goodly chunk off of the price of the wood and threw in a bucket of nails and two old hammers. Folk in this part of the country were fair and friendly, I must say.

Well, most of them were, anyway.

We'd stayed over in Dry Gulch for the night, and started out before dawn to try to get home by nightfall the next day, but the going back was much slower, loaded down as we were. We had to push the wagon to get it through the creek without getting stuck, and when we emerged on the other side, dripping with water and sweat, I found a couple of old acquaintances waiting for us on the sandbar.

"Weeell," drawled Milt Bozer, "if it isn't Mister MacGyver out for a Sunday drive with his pet Chinks." His revolver was in his hand, casual and deadly, and I could see the shadowy hole of the barrel quite clearly. His brother Wilt was holding a rifle on Huna and Bai, giggling and spitting tobacco juice onto the sand.

It wasn't so long ago that I was staring down the barrel of another gun, held in a deadlier hand than Milt's.

Didn't matter who was holding the gun... I didn't like the view. No, sir... not one bit.


	5. Chapter 5 The Brothers Grisly

**Part 5, ****The Brothers Grisly**

The months had not been kind to Milt and Wilt Bozer. Both were leaner and shabbier than they'd looked back when they'd taken up with that Murdoc character against Mr. Thornton, Mr. Dalton, and myself. When he up and rode out of town, he left his associates behind to face the music. They were arrested for trying to bushwhack Thornton and Dalton, but they got off with a few months of community service by pleading stupidity in front of ol' Judge Bradley.

Since then, I'd seen them scarce around Serenity—mucking stables, painting the church, mending boardwalks—ever under the watchful eye of Wyatt, the town marshal. They had managed to convince him to pick the badge up again, but he never wore it in plain sight. He spent less time in the Red Dog Saloon, though, and actually began to do sheriff-type things around the town. Having Milt and Wilt on a short leash seemed to give him a taste for law and order, all of a sudden.

I'm guessing that the Brothers Bozer had finally reached the end of their service, or perhaps they'd had enough of Wyatt and stuffed him into a gunny-sack and quit town. At any rate, they seemed to have not forgotten the little grudge they were packing against yours truly.

I let my hands drop, still holding the reins loosely. "Howdy, boys. Been a while."

Milt grew a twisted smile. "Yes, it has. It's been a long while indeed… but I haven't forgotten that I owe you one."

"Yeah," Wilt agreed, spitting again sloppily. "Me, too." Milt rolled his eyes and took a half-step away to avoid getting the mess on his boots.

I nodded at them. "The way I see it, gents, I do owe you something. I'd like to thank you."

Puzzled, Milt and Wilt looked at one another briefly, then turned back to stare at me. "What does he mean, Wilt?"

Wilt hissed at his brother to be quiet. To me, he said, "You want to thank… us?" Wilt asked, full of suspicion. "Why?"

"'Cause I'm so grateful. If it hadn't been for you two keeping Mr. Thornton and Mr. Dalton busy on the edge of town, they might have got hurt by that Murdoc fella. I knew you were just trying to help in the only way you could… I would have told the judge that, but I was afraid that you wouldn't want anyone to know… in case Murdoc heard about it and decided to come back and get even."

"I… we din'—_what's he talkin' about, Milt?_" Wilt demanded, violently confused.

"Shut up!" Milt growled. "You think you're clever, MacGyver… but you are wrong about that. If he comes back…" Milt paused and swallowed; he obviously did not want to ever see that man in black again. "If he ever comes back to these parts… it won't be me and my brother who should be worriting." Milt lowered his gun and pointed a gloved finger at me as if it were loaded with shot. "He said he had business with you to finish. When he finds out that you're still breathin', he's going to take a personal interest." He holstered his gun, elbowing Wilt to make him lower the rifle as well. "We don't need to bother killing him, Wilt. We'll just wait for Murdoc to come back… and make sure we get us front-row seats for the show."

Milt laughed heartily, throwing back his head. Wilt began to laugh too--which was a mistake.

Caught by the stiff morning breeze, some of the tobacco juice sprayed all over Milt, covering his face and hat.

"**Dammit, Wilt!**" Milt growled, swiping his sleeve across his face to wipe away the offensive stuff, "I wish you'd learn to not spit into the wind."

"Sorry, Milt," Wilt mumbled, wiping his chin. They swung their horses to the side and rode around the wagon, leaving behind two relieved Chinese boys and one disturbed ex-Calvary man.


	6. Chapter 6 The Delinquency of Miners

**Part 6,** **The Delinquency of Miners**

I let out a sigh. Even to me, it sounded weary and long-suffering. I looked across the table at my friend and tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "Big Springs Ranch is bought and paid-for… we signed and shook on it. How is it that you could need more money so soon?" I frowned at him. "Andrew Jackson Dalton. **_Don't_** tell me you gambled it all away!"

"Of course not!" Dalton replied in a huff. "A professional card-player never uses his own money." The haughty tone faded from his voice, to be replaced by a wheedling plea, "I just need a little capitol to get a game going over by Frost Creek—you know they've got a silver-mine over there that is just _bleeding_ ore! Miners and cowboys with cash burning holes in their saddlebags…"

I just shook my head. As long as I'd known Jack Dalton, he was always trying to make a deal or take a chance… especially if there was a fair bit money involved.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I've got neither the coin nor the inclination to gamble… even by proxy!" I held up one hand in the face of his blustering argument. "That's final. I can't believe that you dragged me all the way into town to touch me for coin… I wish you luck, but I can't help you."

Dalton grimaced. "Never wish a gambler luck... its bad luck!" He grabbed the pestle of salt that had come on the tray with our meal and sprinkled it superstitiously on the table. "And not just to ask a favour… I bought you lunch, didn't I?"

I laughed and pointed at Wyatt's sign. "'Free food with every drink'… you drank and I ate!" I pushed the empty plate away and picked up my hat. "Maybe you should ask Mr. Thornton if he'd be interested in investing in your little… enterprise."

Dalton's face changed from disappointed to hopeful. "Do you think he'd go for it?"

"No," I said bluntly, with a smile. "He'd be more likely to strap you personally after the way you swindled his ranch-hands a couple of months back."

"I never…! That was a fair game! You know me well enough that I don't cheat at cards. At least not against anyone who isn't as good at cheating as I am." Dalton looked around quickly, realizing what he'd said.

Fortunately, the Red Dog saloon was empty except for Miss Penny and the man Wyatt had hired to tend bar for him; some fellow named Skinner who looked like he'd be more comfortable trapping beaver on a glacier somewhere then behind an oak table cleaning glasses. The clean white apron he wore looked like a handkerchief on the belly of a grizzly bear.

I tipped my hat to Miss Penny, who blushed slightly and gave me one of her smiles… the ones that kept me warm all along the long ride home.

I was hoping that this would be the last that I heard of Jack's trip to Frost Creek, but as usual where Jack Dalton was concerned, I was in for more trouble.

I was just settling down in front of the fire to enjoy some of Lee Sing's cooking. It had been a long day, and between Jei, Huna, Bai, and myself, we'd managed to round up another 20 head of cattle that had been wintering in one of the deeper valleys. We were all weary; scratched by thorn and stone, saddlesore and dusty, and a hot dinner and a soft rack were all any of us were looking forward to. Ling and Lee Sing had spent the day baking, and had roasted up a fat goose that Lee Sing had traded for.

I heard the rattle of horse and carriage on the road outside, the sound of urgency apparent. The door was thrown open without even a cursory knock, and Jack Dalton stood there, dusty but dressed in a sharp suit, a look of money and excitement on his face.

Lee Sing uttered a phrase of surprise, but he bustled forward immediately to close the door which Dalton had left open in his hasty entrance.

"MacGyver! Thank God I found you here!"

"Where else would you expect to find me at this hour?" I asked mildly. I pushed dinner aside with a regretful sigh and stood up. "Sit down here and tell me what you're all-excited about."

"It's that Murdoc character!" Dalton blurted his news. He clutched his hat as if he expected it to blow off somehow, and dropped into my chair. "He's in the territory!"

Lee Sing grabbed up his meat chopper and began to rant in Mandarin passionately. Ling made calming motions as her sons began to rise from the table. They sat back down, reluctantly. To Lee Sing, Ling began to speak swiftly and softly.

Dalton stared at the cleaver-wielding, extremely angry Chinaman. "Um… was it something I said?" he gulped.

"Billy was his friend," I said simply. "Mine, too."

My anger was no less than Lee Sing's, but years of war and bloodshed had dampened my appetite for vengeance. A vein of hate burned within me at the sound of Murdoc's name, but it paled when compared to the thirst for justice running through me, as cold and deep as the waters of Big Springs.

I walked over to Lee Sing, moving slowly, and held out my hand. Lee Sing frowned mightily, but he reversed the cleaver and put the handle of the blade in my hand. I took it gently and set it aside, then steered him toward a seat at the table.

"Let's all sit down and hear Mr. Dalton's news. Ling, could you fix another plate? I'm sure Mr. Dalton would welcome some of Lee Sing's excellent cooking after his long trip."

Dalton paused long enough to gulp down a cup of coffee, then he began to tell us the things he had learned at Frost Creek. I tried to do justice to the meal before me, but the more Jack talked, the faster my appetite faded. Soon I was just pushing rice around on my plate, listening. Ling pushed a basket of bread toward me, and I gave up eating to tear one of the rolls to pieces, occasionally poking a twist into my mouth.

Murdoc had been seen in the territory, Dalton had reported. He was the one who had settled the claim-jumping problem they'd had up by Mammoth, by shooting one of the men dead. No secret that he'd been paid by both men to kill the other… I guess one man had managed to pay a little more. Lawmen from all over the territory had begun a manhunt, Jack said, but Murdoc had proved very elusive and remained at large.

I wasn't too surprised that he'd managed to avoid capture, but I wondered how a man could make a living killing in cold blood… just for money. It made me sick in my soul, because the more I listened, the more I knew that I had to do something about it. About him.

I had to find Murdoc and bring him in. Or bring him down.

I wasn't hungry anymore, but I was ten-times as tired as I ever felt in my life.


	7. Chapter 7 Requital

**Part 7, Requital**

It's never been so hard to do this before.

I recall when I left my cavalry unit—I picked up and packed up everything I owned into one canvas bag and was riding across the border within three days of getting my last wage—and it only took me that long because I had to wait until the paymaster sobered up enough to remember where the key to the strongbox was.

When I rode out I didn't look back. Didn't look too far left or right, neither. All I could think about was finding Serenity. I'd seen in on the big fancy map that my commanding officer had nailed to the wall. Montana was a huge territory—not as big as Texas, maybe, but large enough for a man like me to get lost in, and no bad memories to haunt him through the nights.

Serenity was everything and more that I'd dreamt of. I don't want to leave this place that has become my home, like no other place has ever been for me... but Serenity wasn't without bad memories anymore. The earth I loved had become the grave of a friend. I couldn't live here and work this land, not for one more day—no more than I can lay awake for one more night remembering the man who died—knowing that the man who had murdered him roamed free.

Something had to be done, and I don't know exactly why I figured that _**I**_ had to be the one who fixed things… only that I was the one who couldn't live doing _nothing_ anymore.


	8. Chapter 8 A Man in Black

**Part 8, A Man in Black**

I know what you're thinking… that I was crazy to be riding out alone, going after a cold-blooded killer-for-hire with nothing to go on but the fact that I couldn't bring myself to meet my own eyes in the shaving mirror.

You'd be right for thinking that… and you'd be wrong, too. I did have _some_ information. Jack Dalton had brought me news—that Murdoc had been seen up in Mammoth. I knew that the law was looking for him for a shooting that he'd taken credit for. A poster appeared on the wall of the Red Dog Saloon—Wyatt used the poker table for an office when he needed to, and the beer cellar doubled as a lock-up. There was even a cash-reward being offered, but that wasn't what caught my eye. That face… that cold, mocking grin…the demons that deviled my nights wore such a grin, and their maniacal laughter drove me off my feed even during the bright light of day.

Aside from Lee Sing, I didn't tell a soul what I was planning to do. Lee Sing and his family would remain on the farm and take care of things. I worried that they might be in danger if they remained, but Lee Sing was firm; he wasn't leaving Big Springs unless I told him to git. I made him promise to tell anyone who came calling that I was traveling up to Fort Bridger to do some horse-trading. I knew that wouldn't fool anyone for very long, but it should keep any folks from following that I didn't want to get involved. If murderin' Murdoc was going to be gunning for me, then I didn't want anyone else getting in the way this time.

I rode out in the cold before dawn on my buckskin bay, with a saddlebag full of rations and a headache. I headed toward the fort, thinking that I'd lay trail for a few miles and then double back and go to Frost Creek to try to pick up Murdoc's trail there. Riding out of Serenity Valley, I felt a pang in my chest that had nothing to do with old wounds or the fear of new ones.

* * *

High on the crest of the hill, hunkered down to avoid being seen, a man in black watched the progress of the rider far below. The man ran his fingers over the stock and barrel of his rifle. He placed the stock against his shoulder and than laid his cheek gently against the warm wood, eyes closed as if waiting for the tender kiss of a maiden. He drew a deep breath, and then he opened his eyes and looked down the sights; his eyes were now cold and devoid of feeling, and black as the feather of a carrion crow. He counted the stitches across the back of MacGyver's fleece-lined coat.

Suddenly he lifted the barrel of the rifle. As easy as it would be to kill MacGyver now, Murdoc found that he didn't want it to be over that fast. He wanted to be close enough to see his face when he pulled the trigger… just like when he had shot him on the veranda on the Wainwright Hotel in Serenity. He wanted to see the fear in MacGyver's face again… the certain knowledge that death was imminent.

And then this time… he would make **sure** that he was dead.

Murdoc turned and slid his rifle into its sleeve, then led his horse out of the dell where he'd hidden it. He would follow MacGyver for a while… maybe he would get ahead of the man and let MacGyver follow him a little.

Just for the sport of it.


	9. Chapter 9 False Trail

**Part 9  
****False Trail**

Little Jonas rode the burro that turned the brace. The burro had been at this job for many long years; a little groove was worn into the ground from the constant passage of hooves as the walked in his endless circuit around and around the pump, which drew water out of the depths of the earth and made it spit out of a pipe into a trough, which overflowed to fill the cistern.

The boy did not really need to ride the burro to keep him in his traces; it was just _preferable_ to the other odd jobs that the adults around the mine would find for him if they saw him idling. If he looked busy… or if he was just out of ear- and eye-shot of the others… generally he could do as he wished.

He sat astride the bony back of the burro, his eyes closed tight. He was pretending that he was riding to a faraway place where the air didn't smell like dirt and the water didn't taste like rock; a place green and magical like the one in the stories that his papa told him about at night--the old homeland, a place Jonas could not remember because he hadn't been born yet when his mama and papa immigrated.

He was so engrossed in his daydream that he didn't hear anyone approach him.

The burro dipped his head and snorted, and Little Jonas opened his eyes. There was a huge horse standing right beside him, its long neck lowered to touch noses with Little Jonas' own mount. Jonas was so startled that he slithered off the back of the burro and landed in the dusty rut on his rear.

From his new perspective, Jonas saw that the horse had a rider. The man smiled, not in a mocking way but a friendly one. "Wh-whoa there, fella! Sorry I startled you…"

Those were all the words that the man managed to get out before the lad scrambled up and went pelting toward the entrance of the mine.

MacGyver let him go. He swung down out of the saddle and led his horse over to the trough. He dipped a hand into the water and tasted it; it was slightly bitter, but drinkable, and refreshing enough after a long walk on a dry canteen. He found a bucket and filled it for his horse before helping himself to a few more draughts.

MacGyver was loosening the straps to his rig when six men came out of the mine and walked toward him. They each carried a shovel, a pick, or an ax handle. The leader of the group, a sturdy man with red hair and muscular arms that seemed to be straining the seams of his homespun shirt, lifted one hand and the other minors halted and spread out behind him.

"He ain't carryin', boys." The man looked MacGyver's dusty form up and down. "Good mornin' to ye, drifter. If it's a meal yer looking to beg… there's work a'plenty for those who'd earn it. We ain't got nuthin' to spare… 'less ye got summat fer trade?" he added hopefully.

"I'm not a trader," MacGyver said. "It's been a dry day… my horse and I just need water."

"We've plenty a' that and to spare… " the man grated out a laugh that sounded like boulders rolling down a slope of gravel. He tugged off one glove and shoved the hand out towards MacGyver. "… So long as ye don' mind the taste of ore."

"Tastes better than trail dust," MacGyver said, accepting the man's hand in a hearty shake. "Name's MacGyver."

"O'Sullivan. This here is my dig—and these are my boys. Back to work, lads," the man turned his head to speak to his men. "Send Lil' Jonas back out here." When he faced MacGyver again, his freckled face was grinning. "Scared poor Lil' Jonas out of half a year's growth, so ye did! He came runnin' and swearin' that ye were a boggart come wreakin' outta the woods."

MacGyver took off his hat and slapped it against his leg, shaking loose a cloud of dust. "I didn't mean to scare him like that."

"Forget it… here he is! Jonas, come and say 'hullo' to the man… he won' bite ye!" The lad crept up to the side of the big man, shrinking behind one of his trunk-like legs. "This is my son—Little Jonas."

MacGyver squatted down so that he could be eye-level with the shy youngster. "Hello, Jonas."

The boy peeked around his father's leg. Emboldened by MacGyver's friendly smile, he came out the rest of the way and ducked his head in a clumsy bow of greeting.

"Take care o' the beast, lad," the big miner said, fondly ruffling the lad's hair. "Come up to the mine, Mr. MacGyver. 'Tis a bit cooler outta the sun."

MacGyver handed the reins of his horse to the child and watched as he led the bay to a shady spot to tether him. "That's a nice boy you've got there, Mister O'Sullivan."

"Jonas. Big Jonas, as it were."

MacGyver followed him into the mouth of the mineshaft. It wasn't much cooler, but there was a place to sit out of the sun and a jug of water that tasted clean.

"Now, Mr. MacGyver," Jonas rumbled, "tell me why you're riding out this way. We don't get many visitors of the mindin'-their-own-business variety."

"It's just 'MacGyver', Jonas. And you're right… I am looking for someone. He might have ridden this way on a black stud. The man's name is Murdoc."

"And why would ye be looking for this Murdoc?" Jonas asked frankly. "Is he a horse-thief… or a deserter, maybe?" he eyed MacGyver's Union trousers, dusty blue with a yellow stripe down the seam. "You don't look much like a lawman."

"I'm not. I used to ride in Texas with the cavalry, but this man is no deserter. I'm not sure that he's even from these parts. He talks with an accent… British, I'd say."

"British!" Big Jonas spat on the ground. The sound was echoed more softly by Little Jonas, who'd come quietly up beside his father and mimicked his sentiment. "If I'd seen him… I'd tell you! Had my fill of those red-coated bastards back in Cork."

"This one would probably be wearing black," MacGyver said. "The men at Green Creek said that he was headed this way. Guess he must have turned off the trail or doubled back."

"There's a settlement yonder," Jonas waved one meaty arm to the east. Little Jonas mirrored his movement, bringing a chuckle to his father's lips. "He could have turned off along the creek running through the valley… make him hard to track. D'ye think he knows yer followin' him?"

"I suppose it's possible," MacGyver said. "I've been trailing him for some time."

"Well, be careful! Snakes in the grass, those Brits are! Can't trust 'em!"

"Yes. Well, you take care yourselves." MacGvyer stood up to go, and found his hand being swallowed again by Big Jonas's.

"Come back anytime you're in the area," the miner said. "We'll be more accommodatin' next time. And keep yourself to the path when you're riding on," Jonas cautioned. "This is Blackfoot territory. They pretty much keep to themselves, but if you trespass on their hunting ground… well, they can get very… unwelcoming."

MacGyver nodded his thanks again before walking toward his horse. Suddenly, the boy ran up to him and caught his hand with both of his little ones. MacGyver stopped and knelt, solemnly shaking the little fellow's hand just the way he had with Big Jonas. "Thanks for the water, Little Jonas. Take care of your papa."

* * *

I led my horse down the trail, back the way I'd come. I remembered a place where the trail had split into two directions. Both trails had looked as if they'd been deliberately obscured, and I'd chosen the one that looked more hidden—figuring that Murdoc would have taken more care to cover the true trail.

I realize now I'd been out-thought. Murdoc must be aware that I was on his trail—that or the man always covered his tracks. Being dogged was probably something that a man in his profession was used to.

"Come on, Smokey," I murmured. I tightened the saddle straps and boosted myself into the saddle. "Let's get back on the road. And keep your eyes open this time… Murdoc may be another day ahead of us now."

As we went down the mountain, I felt warmth on the back of my neck. It wasn't the sun… that light was now blocked from the sky by the bulk of rock rising behind us. It was something else… eyes, perhaps.

I don't know how I knew—I just _knew_—**we **were the ones being watched.

tbc


	10. Chapter 10 Quiet Valley

**Part 10,  
Quiet Valley**

I can't remember seeing a more beautiful day, or if I've ever ridden in a more beautiful place. The air in this valley was sweet and cool, pine and rain-scented. Smokey's hooves splashed through the shallow creek as we moved upstream. The water was clear and cold, and I just wanted to step down and take a drink, maybe sit on the green bank and listen to the water talk as it wandered over the stones and just wile away the hours counting cattails.

I'd have rather been doing lots of things than was I was doing—but it had to be done. The shaggy cowboy that looked up at me from the glassy surface of the water looked grim and haunted, and I couldn't sit comfortable… even at night when I couldn't ride on… without thinking about Billy lying on the cold ground, shot dead without a second thought by an evil man.

It's said that a man who focuses on one thing too much grows blind to everything else. May be that was why he got the drop on me so easy.

I had no more warning that the crack of a green willow limb as a bullet shattered it, and then I was wallowing on my back in the stream. Smokey reared in surprise, and I saw his sharp hooves coming down like crushing knives not a hand's breadth from me. Then he bolted down the creek.

I pushed myself up out of the water, leaving a trail that slowly spread and melted into the slow-moving current. I knew I'd been shot—you only have to be shot once to never forget what it feels like—but I didn't have time to worry about that now. The willow cracked again, raining blade-like leaves on the water, and I knew that I had to get out of sight.

I ran. The trees in the valley were thick, and I instinctively headed uphill, thinking to get above whoever was shooting at me. I must have disappeared to his eyes pretty quickly, because I didn't hear anymore bullets striking. He must have been using one of those fancy rifles, because I couldn't hear the sound of the shot, even as quiet as the valley had been. He must have been some distance away.

My arm stung where it had been creased by a bullet. There was watery blood dripping from my fingertips… but there wasn't much I could do about that. Distance was more important now, and a man just can't run so fast without his arms swinging free.

I ran until the stitch in my side made me forget about the pain in my arm. While I was leaning against a boulder, catching my breath, I tugged off my bandanna and tied off the wound. It wasn't bad… just a deep scratch, really. I looked all around, trying to catch sight of anybody that might be trailing me. I couldn't see a thing… just trees upon trees, covering the slope like a blanket, up and down.

Then I did spot something… was that smoke? Further up the slope, off to the right of where I had been climbing. Suddenly I was worried—had I been running toward the shooter?

I wasn't tired anymore. With a bit more recklessness that was healthy, I began to run toward the left. The trees grew together closer, a tangle that slowed my flight to a stagger, but my thoughts and fears drove me on—I could get lost in that thicket, maybe lay up and rest for a bit—when the ground below my feet turned into air, and I was falling instead of running.

Man is not a mountain goat… or an eagle. I fell.


	11. Chapter 11 Red Pony and Little Feet

**Part 11,  
Red Pony and Little Feet**

You should never read those novels… you know, those books you can buy in drug stores for a dime. The stories inside just can't be real. I mean, in one of _those_ stories, a fella who found himself falling through a wash—like I had just done—he would catch himself on a strong tree root or hook his fingers on the edge of a granite lip and save himself from a nasty fifty-foot drop.

Those stories just aren't real.

The only thing that saved me from a fifty-foot drop was the fact that the ravine I'd fallen into was only twenty-some feet deep. My fall—or rather my slide, as I pretty much rode the slope of the cliff as I went down—ended abruptly in a pile of shale and gorse. I decided to simply lay there for a bit. Didn't see any sense in trying to move when the world was already spinning and leaping around like a hoodoo dancer. Besides, I was kind of comfortable—believe it or not.

I must have passed out or fallen asleep, because the next time I opened my eyes, it was dark. Things were still moving… and other things hurt more than they had before… so I went back to dreaming in the shale and gorse. Although I don't think that's where I was anymore. There were voices, and I could smell smoke and horses.

For a moment I thought I was somewhere far away. I remembered Sherman and the ride to the sea… there were a lot of horses… lots and lots of smoke… and greedy flames and grim faces. A nightmare you can read about in a history book.

I fought out of my dreams like a drowning man surfacing, gasping and shaking and dripping. A bright fire was burning nearby. I raised a hand to my sweaty face and felt a twinge of pain… oh, yeah. Wrong arm.

On the far side of the fire two faces seemed to float out of the darkness. A man and a woman, native by the look of their eyes and skin; they watched me as I struggled and groaned to get up; I made it as far as sitting.

My face was stiff. I gingerly touched my cheek. Some kind of mud was caked on the side of my head, above and around my left eye. It smelled… well, let's just say I knew where the horse-smell was coming from now. When I tried to scrape the awful stuff off, the woman across the fire rose and came to me, laying a gentle hand on my arm to stop me.

They didn't speak a word that I could understand, so we got along without words. It seemed pretty obvious that they'd found me and brought me here, but the man didn't seem happy to have me. He frowned a lot and did not come any closer than the width of the fire. When he turned his head to watch his companion, I could see that he had his hair tied back with a red strip of cloth, hanging like the tail of a horse down his back.

Little Feet was not so shy… I called her that because she had the smallest, most dainty feet I'd ever seen on a grown woman. She doctored my wounds and scrapes, and all the time she was doing that, she would hum softly. She was good at her work… my injuries stopped bothering me quickly … although the smell would probably bother me for weeks!

At one point it became necessary for me to stand up. I needed to… well, I needed to do something that everyone must do… something I'd have preferred not to have to do in front of a lady. That's when Red Pony came around the fire finally—after the woman spoke to him firmly and gave him a glare. He lent me a shoulder so I could stand and do my business... and that was when I saw what he carried strapped to his back; a hunting bow. It was beautifully carved and a little thicker and longer than most bows I'd seen used by a native Indian.

Suddenly I began to wonder if it was Murdoc who'd been shooting at me after all.

I didn't have time to worry about that, though, because once Red Pony helped me back to my place by the fire, the night swallowed me up… might have had something to do with that stuff Little Feet gave me to drink.

When I opened my eyes again, the fire was a cold pile of ash, the Indians were gone, and Smokey was standing there in the clearing, tugging grass out of the ground and staring at me.

"Coward," I said to him, as I rolled to my feet. "Who taught you to run without looking where you were going?"


	12. Chapter 12 Wanted Man

**Part 12  
****After Serenity: ****Wanted Man**

I could hear him coming a mile away. If I'd really wanted to, I could have avoided him simply by standing completely still; he didn't see me until I took off my hat and waved. That round, shiny face of his lit up with a rakish grin, and I have to confess I felt a smile crack under my mustache.

"MacGyver! There you are! Do you know what a devil of a time I've had following you? I swear! At one point it looked like you jumped straight down a cliff!"

"I wasn't exactly trying to leave landmarks."

The dryness of my greeting was completely lost on him. He slipped out of his fancy saddle and came forward to shake me by the hand. "Glad to see you, man!" He obviously was. He was also glad to see the small fire I'd built. It was chilly in the mountains as the sun crept behind the peaks, casting an early darkness. It was going to get colder.

"Jack… what are you doing out here?" I asked him after a spell, once he'd warmed himself up. "Not that I'm not glad to see you."

"Why, looking for you, of course! Mighty sneaky of you, letting out like that without a warning—"

"I made it plain to Lee Sing what I was about."

"But you didn't tell me! You didn't tell Mr. Thornton, either! He was chewing ore and spitting nails when he finally figured it out you'd gone. No—Lee Sing _didn't_ sing—he didn't say a word one! I had to ask every prairie hen and ground squirrel between Serenity and Billings to get a whiff of your trail! A person might think you didn't **want** to be followed!"

"I am trying to find a killer, Dalton." I tried to be patient, but he was either oblivious or ignoring me. I had to make it plain. "Jack—this isn't your fight."

"**Not** my fight? Not **_my_** fight?" Jack placed his hand over his heart as if wounded. "Mac… it pains me to hear you say that. Am I not a man of honest character?" He grinned a little, in spite of himself. "Well… _mostly_ honest? I couldn't let a friend go on by himself, up against that murdering jackal!"

Time to be blunt. "You're no gunman, Dalton."

"Neither are you," he said quickly. He reached into his pocket and drew out a cigar. He examined it carefully, neatly snipped off the end and lit it with a taper from the fire. I watched him darkly until he took the thing out of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I know, I know… do you think I want to be out here, to be shot at and frozen and forced to drink your coffee?" He puffed on his cigar.

"Then why **are** you here?"

"Because it's where I should be." He glowered back at me for a moment, and then he reached into his coat and pulled out a paper. "And neither of us is where we really ought to be. Your fox has been sighted in Cheyenne." He unfolded the paper with a snap of his wrist.

I frowned. It was a hand-drawn sketch, crude but very similar, bearing a likeness to the black gunman. "Murdoc was in Cheyenne a week ago? That's strange… I'm sure he's not far from here. We've been chasing each other through the brush for weeks now. How the heck did he get down there?" I read the paper again. "Five hundred dollars reward? That sounds off… the handbills I've seen all offer over a thousand!"

"Maybe it's a trick," Dalton allowed. "That handbill was tacked in the wall of the Red Dog Saloon. Maybe… maybe he arranged to have it put it up… to throw you off his track?"

"I think it may be more than that," I said, refolding the paper carefully. "Maybe this is how he gets his commissions. I ought to have asked Thornton how he contacted Murdoc to have him come to Serenity. Maybe this is how he gets his work."

"Risky way to build a resumé!" Dalton shuddered. "Imagine waking up unlucky one morning and getting gunned down for a job you haven't done!"

"He's done enough 'jobs' to earn an unlucky morning," I muttered. The sun was down; the last of the light was leaching out of the sky. "Jack… I take it back. I'm not glad to see you… I'm **really** glad! Tomorrow I ride for Cheyenne."

"Nope!" Jack settled back against his saddle, setting his hat down over his eyes. "**We** ride for Cheyenne!" He frowned and shoved his hat brim up, "But what if it is a trick? What if Murdoc is trying to shake you?"

"I don't think so," I said, and I couldn't have said why I was so sure. But I slept better that night than I had for a very long time. Dalton snores a bit, but it wasn't so bad not to be alone anymore.


	13. Chapter 13 The Player

**After Serenity  
****Part 13: T****he Player**

They say that you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family. In the case of Jack Dalton… there was not much of a choice: he was both. A cross between your best friend who once double-dog-dared you to eat an earthworm, and a gregarious little brother you couldn't shake off no matter how fast you ran. You just couldn't get rid of him…and sometimes you couldn't remember why you'd want to try.

I'd only known Andrew Jackson Dalton (no relation to the Dalton Gang) for a few months. He'd been the first person to befriend me after I found Serenity. He'd stuck with me through the troubles I had with Mr. Thornton before he and I came to an understanding. And even though he was no gunman, Jack stood by me against the man in black, Murdoc. By any definition, that's what a friend is.

He also just happened to be the man who sold me the piece of property that had become my true home, Big Springs Ranch. He was no rancher himself; he'd won the deed to the place in a poker game. I never thought that I'd team up with gambler, but Jack wasn't your run-of-the-mill card sharp. He had more than an ounce of savvy in him, and despite the fact that he cultivated an air of avarice and dressed like a tinhorn, I knew he had a heart of gold.

And as it turned out, he was good on a horse—no tinhorn could ride all day without paying a heavy price—and he rode with me as if he'd been born in the saddle, never uttering a word of complaint.

Not that he never uttered words. He never ceased uttering. The man chattered like an entire committee of washerwomen. I've never been much of a talker, but that didn't seem to bother him. He could keep up all sides of the conversation.

I can't deny that it was interesting. I haven't learned so much in such a short time since my years at West Point—and that was so long ago it could have happened in another life, to another man. I learned a little bit of everything. History. Politics. Philosophy. Science. Gossip. I began to wonder if there was anything he didn't know about.

Responding to him just seemed to encourage him, so I merely listened, nodding at appropriate times and occasionally laughing. He knew a thousand jokes, half I've never heard and half I would never repeat. Not in mixed company.

I liked hearing him talk. The sound of his voice brought back memories of home, the smoky Red Dog Saloon with its overpriced food and scarred wooden tables. Made me think about Miss Penny and how much I missed her sweet smile.

I don't know how many days it was before he finally stopped talking. It was just after sunset. We were camped in a neat hollow to stave off the chill of late winter. Supper had been cooked and eaten, and I was drowsing with my boots on a warm rock when I heard a strange sound.

Silence.

I opened my eyes and saw him sitting across the fire. He wasn't looking at me, staring into the flames dancing between us. His expression was closed and a bit grim.

"Jack?"

He started. "Eh? I thought you were asleep!"

"Is something wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?" He showed his hands to the fire, chafing them.

"You stopped talking."

"I figured you'd be tired of my rambling by now." Jack said this with a grin, but I could still see that grim look in his eyes.

"Beats talking to my horse," I said. "You want to tell me what's eating you?"

Jack sighed. "Blunt as a hammer, aren't you?" He picked up a stick and began to poke the fire, rearranging the coals before adding more wood. A few glowing embers caught the warm air and rose above us, defying both darkness and gravity.

Half an hour maybe passed before he finally confessed. "I rode out here on your trail hoping that I could talk you into giving this up and come back home." When I didn't say anything right away, he frowned at me. "This isn't going to be an all-Jack conversation. You have to say something."

I sat up, pushing my hat back off my forehead. "What can I say? Murdoc killed a man and he needs to answer for that."

"Murdoc has killed **dozens** of men. It's what he does. Getting yourself killed isn't going to bring that boy back," Jack added with heat.

"I know that. But doing nothing will kill the next one. And the one after that."

"You can't possibly take responsibility for the men he _is going _to kill! My God, MacGyver! You're going to throw away your life to spare a handful of men you don't even know! Most of the men he's shot were probably just as wicked and blackhearted as Murdoc is!"

"At least one of them was innocent. Maybe more than one." I saw Billy's face, vivid in my memory as if he was sitting right there with us. He disappeared just as quickly. Or maybe it was a trick of the firelight. "A man once said that all that is necessary for bad men to win is for good men to do nothing. I can't sit and do nothing."

"You aren't doing nothing," Jack gritted at me. "You are a rancher. You are **_not _**a bounty hunter!"

"Nobody's paying me to go after Murdoc." I settled my hat back down on my head. There was nothing further to say.

Jack wasn't done yet, though. "Nobody's paying me to chase after you, either. I guess that's why I'm here… you're crazy, but you're good-crazy. Ah! What the heck! The play at the Red Dog was going dry lately anyhow. Maybe I can find a good game in… what's the next town we're heading to?"

"Medicine Bow," I mumbled.

"Right!" Jack sounded hopeful. "They play cards in Medicine Bow?"

"Nope," I muttered, "I think they just amuse themselves by banging rocks together."

I could feel Jack glaring at me and I couldn't keep the smile off my face.

"You know, MacGyver… I liked it better when you weren't talking! I never knew you could be so sarcastic!"

tbc


End file.
